the gruff hoarse shouts of our troops, as they duly repulsed them, formed a most martial accompaniment to our march. The unity of sound of well executed volleys, told us how Sykes's Regulars attacked, whilst marching by the flank, halted at the word, faced to the left with the precision of an ordinary drill, and delivered their fire with murderous exactness.
A few stray bullets flying in the direction of a temporized corral of pack-horses in a corner of the wood in the rear of the brick house, frightened their cowardly drivers, who commenced a stampede to the rear; and as we emerged from the road to our old position, the beasts were rapidly divesting themselves of their packs, in their progress through the undergrowth. In conjunction with this the frequent and fierce charges of the Rebel massed columns, favored by the smoke of the burning woods, made a panic imminent among the troops upon the lower road. The quick eye of old Joe saw the danger in a moment, and rushing from the house and springing upon his horse, he dashed down that road unattended, his manly form the mark of many a rebel rifle. Shouts of applause greeted him, and the continuous rattle of our musketry told us of the regained confidence of the men, and the renewed steadiness of our line.
It was now four in the afternoon—the usual time with the Rebels for the execution of their favorite movement—charging in massed columns. On they came in their successive charges, howling like fiends, and with a courage that would have adorned an honorable cause. The steady musketry, but above all the terrific showers of canister from cannon that thundered in doublets from right to left along the
line of our batteries, could not be withstood, and they fell back in confusion. The nature of the ground did not permit an advance of our forces, and we were compelled to rest content with their repulse. An hour later our Division moved by still another road to the left, to a ridge in the neighborhood of Banks's Ford. Upon its wooded summit, with no sound to break in upon us save the screaming of whip-poor-wills, which the boys with ready augury construed to mean "whip-'em-well," and picket firing, that would occasionally appear to run along the line, we passed a comfortable night.
Breastworks were the order of the day following, and at noon we were enjoying our coffee in a cleared space, behind a ridge of logs and limbs that fronted our entire Division, and which we would have been content to hold against any attacking force. Cannonading continued at intervals, with occasional musketry firing. As it was considerably to our right, we were not disturbed in our enjoyment of supplies of provisions obtained from vacated Rebel houses in the neighborhood. Our amusement was greatly contributed to, by the sight of some of the men dressed in odd clothing of a by-gone fashionable age. But perhaps the most interesting object was a Text-book upon the Divinity of Slavery, written by a Reverend Doctor Smith, for the use of schools; its marked lessons and dirty dog-ears shewing that it had troubled the brains and thumbs of youthful Rebels. Instilled into infant minds, and preached from their pulpits, we need not wonder that they, with the heartless metaphysics of northern sympathy, should consider slavery "an incalculable blessing," and should now be in arms to vindicate their treason, its legitimate offspring.
Cannonading had been frequent during the day; its heavy booming at times varied by the light rattle of the rifle. From four until eleven p. m. it was a continuous roar, save about an hour's intermission between five and six. At first sounding sullenly away to the right, then gradually nearing, until at nightfall musketry and artillery appeared to volley spitefully almost upon our Division limits. It was apparent that our line had been broken, and apprehending the worst we anxiously stood at arms and awaited the onward. Nearer and nearer the howling devils came; louder and louder grew the sounds of conflict. The fiercest of fights was raging evidently in the very centre of the ground chosen as our stronghold. If ever the Army of the Potomac was to be demoralized by the shock of battle, that was the time. But the feeling was not one of fear with our citizen soldiery—the noblest type of manhood—rather of eagerness for the troops in reserve to be called into the contest. Just before six we heard an honest shout, as the boys would call the cheers of their comrades. It grew fainter; the firing became more distant—slackened and ceased at six, to be resumed again at seven, upon another and more remote line of attack.
The terrible distinctness of this alternate howling and cheering—as perceptible to the ear during the thunders of the fight, as the silver lining that not unfrequently fringes the heavily-charged cloud is to the eye,—is a striking illustration of the power of the human voice. We were to have another, however, and that of but a single voice, which from the agony of soul thrown into it, and its almost supernatural surroundings, must eternally echo in memory.
About three hundred yards distant from the left of our Brigade line, in an open field, on elevated
ground, stood a large and comfortable looking farm-house. In the morning it had been occupied; but as its inmates saw our skirmishers prostrating themselves on the one side in double lines that ran parallel to our breastworks, and the Rebel advance at the same time attain the edge of the wood upon the opposite side,—and the skirmishing that occasionally occurred along the lines giving promise of a fight that might centre upon their premises,—they packed up a few valuables and left for a place of safety. But not all. We read of noble Romans offering their lives in defence of faithful slaves. That species of self-sacrifice is a stranger to our Southern chivalry. In the garret of the building, upon some rags, lay an old woman, who had been crippled from injuries received by being scalded some months before, and had thus closed a term of faithful service which ran over fifty years, of the life of her present master and of that of his father before him. Worn out, and useless for further toil, she had been placed in the garret with other household rubbish. Her poor body crippled,—but a casket, nevertheless, of an immortal soul,—was not one of the valuables taken by the family upon their departure. As the thunders of the thickening fight broke in upon her loneliness, her cries upon the God of battles, alone powerful to save, could be heard with great distinctness. Isolated and under the fire of either line, there was no room for human relief. Her strength of voice appeared to grow with the increasing darkness, and above the continuous thunder of the cannon were the cries—"God Almighty, help me!" "Lord, save me!" "Have mercy on me!" shrieked and groaned in all the varied tones of mortal agony. Long after the firing had ceased, in fact until we moved at